


night changes

by guardianoffun



Series: midnight memories [1]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, there's only one bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 11:21:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22634908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guardianoffun/pseuds/guardianoffun
Summary: You know the trope. That's all this is. Morse and Box, through a series of events, are forced to hunker down in the same bed for the night.Not slash, but perhaps another time...
Relationships: Ronnie Box & Endeavour Morse
Series: midnight memories [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1680592
Comments: 18
Kudos: 37





	night changes

**Author's Note:**

> So I was like "i wanna write only one bed trope" for morse but didnt know who else to write it for so i used a random name generator and it picked Box, and it turns out that's actually a huge amount of fun to write so lol have this, i had immense fun doing it. 
> 
> Set in some weird time/space after the end of s6 where Box I guess has survived the shooting, and he and Morse aren't quite at each others throats so much. Idk. I just thought this was fun and a good chance to evnt about all the time ive had wet socks
> 
> pls dont @ me about geography and/or timelines i wrote this at 2am

If they had only left when Morse had said they should, they wouldn't have this issue. Neither of them would be stood in the lobby of a rundown hotel somewhere north of Headington, both soaked to the bone because the car had found it difficult to wade through three foot of water on a narrow, hill ridden lane despite Box’s valiant efforts. Morse, who stood shivering despite the heater in the corner cranking out it’s best, watched as his superior slammed his hands on the front desk. He didn’t know what he thought that would achieve; the place as crummy as it was, was full. Three different people had told them that, no amount of arm waving and  _ who do you think I am _ talk would find them a room. 

The poor sod at the desk apologised again, as Box dripped rainwater across his booking sheets. He handed over a business card and then hurried into a back room, leaving the DI glowering at the card. Morse rocked back on his heels, letting his hands which were clasped behind him press against the heater in an attempt to get some feeling back in them. He watched Box fume for a moment before he came slouching back over, a face like thunder. 

“He won’t budge,” he said, and Morse resisted the urge to say I told you so - because he hadn’t, but also because he didn’t think a black eye would help the situation any. Box thrust the card at him, forcing him to let go of the heater and snatch up the card. 

“This place is about a mile away, he’s called to see if they’ve a bed free.” Morse felt a shiver run across him. The car had barely made it into the carpark, it wasn’t going anywhere else, not in this storm. 

“We’d have to walk,” he said, knowing there was precious little they could do otherwise. It was that or start the trek all the way home on foot; an hour at least, if they were quick about it. With the wind blowing hard enough to rattle windows, a ten minute hike up the road seemed the much more favourable option. That was, provided there were beds there. Morse ignored that thought as well as he could. Sitting in a damp car with Box for what would be nearly twelve hours did not a good evening make. 

There was a tense moment as the pair waited in stoic silence for the return of the concierge who was all too happy to push them towards the door, insisting there was a room at the other place. The crack of thunder as the pair of them walked out into the night should, in hindsight, have been a sign of where this was all heading. 

They walked in silence, not necessarily because of the shared animosity, but because there was no way to hear your own thoughts as the storm whipped around them, let alone anything else. The only way either of them avoided falling in potholes along the dimly lit roads was with quick arms shot out to shove or pull each other. They almost missed the turning into the hotel, and it was only Morse’s keen eyes that caught the flickering lamp in a far off window that turned them right. The building was somewhat smaller than expected, but they pushed on nonetheless.

By the time they pushed into the second stop of the evening, it would not have been possible to have looked more wet if they’d been pulled from the river. Morse’s shoes made wet squelching noises every step he took, and raindrops clung to his eyelashes. No matter how many times he ran a hand across his face, water gathered on his nose, at his temples, and dripped onto his sodden jacket. 

When Box pulled out his wallet to slam a handful of cash on the desk, it was soaked through. The bored looking man on the desk - who was more of a boy really - took the wet notes and shook them out before handing them a key. He then pulled out a map and circled something on it, and it was only then the pair of them realised their walking was not over, for their home for the night was a ‘flat’ another five minute walk from the lobby. In the rain, wind, and icy cold. Morse wondered if he might witness a murder here tonight, as Box snatched the keys from the kid. His only consolation was that all Box’s anger right now was directed towards someone else, he was quite thankful for once not to be the subject of his sore temper. He could only hope it lasted. 

Taking in a deep breath, Morse took off a few paces from Box, now frightfully bored of the rain and desperate to at the very least get his shoes off. Fantasies of heaters and fireplaces, a cup of tea and a towel filled him. In that moment, Morse could not have wanted or prayed for anything more than simple, blessed warmth. 

As their bedroom for the night came into view, Morse felt his heart sink, ever so slightly. Dreams of roaring fires quickly faded out to embers as the shack, for lack of a better word, appeared amongst the trees. Perhaps it would have been quaint once upon a time, but it appeared to predate the war - quite possibly both of them. Peeling paint and a missing post in the banister were only the start of it all. The windows were whistling even from here, so something was loose somewhere, and it smelt far too much like damp than any habitable place should. At least there was a porch, somewhere Morse could duck out of the rain as he waited for Box to catch up, hand already outstretched with the key. 

“You find the lights, I’ll get the kettle on,” Box grunted as he shoved the key in the door, and Morse nodded, not in the mood to argue now. The rain had rather sapped both of them of their usual fire. 

There could have been a skirmish at the door, but in a surprising show of chivalry, Box waved him in first, pulling the door closed behind them with a thud. Morse’s hand batted at the walls for a second, before finding the light switch, and he immediately wished he hadn’t; perhaps his dream would have survived a little longer. This was, apparently, it. 

One room, with what he could only assume was the bathroom to the left. The sickly yellow light washed out the faded wallpaper, turned the carpet a grim off-white sort of colour, and highlighted the sheer lack of furniture the room had; a flimsy looking set of drawers, a desk crammed in a corner with a wonky chair shoved under it, one side unit with a kettle and two mismatched cups, and most horrifyingly of all, one thin, ratty looking queen sized bed.  _ One _ . 

A thin set of curtains fluttered about the broken window, and Morse considered briefly throwing himself from it. 

Box swore. 

Morse did not respond, but headed straight for the bathroom, praying desperately that there was a tub, because that would be better than the alternative. The light in here, a jarringly bright white, only further crushed those hopes. A shower. Slowly turning back out into the only other room they had, he watched Box wrestle with the ancient kettle. He let him tinker as he pulled off his shoes, grimacing as a water pooled in them. He laid them upside down beneath the radiator, which was blessedly on, and began peeling off his socks after it. It was only as he shucked off his jacket, realisation dawned on him that neither of them had spare clothes on them. The list of good news to give Box was only growing. 

At the very least, by the time Morse was down to his trousers and shirt, everything else draped out in the hope they would dry by morning, Box had two steaming mugs of tea. No sugar of course, and only the pre-packed kind of milk cartons that turned sour in hot water, so Morse took his black. 

“Good news,” he said dryly, as Box began undressing too. “We’ve got no bath, no dry clothes, and only one bed. Oh and no car.” Morse dropped into the chair by the desk, and immediately regretted it at the sensation of wet trousers clinging to his legs. There was no way he could sleep like this, but the only solution was not one he wanted to think about. 

Box, stripped down to his polo and too-tight trousers, leaned over the bed making Morse wince as he dripped over the sheets. 

“At least there’s a few pillows,” he grunted. “One of us can take the floor?” It was phrased more like a question, though Morse suspected he meant it as an order. Morse glanced across the worn carpet, eyes lingering on a dull brown stain beside the bed. 

“Feel free,” he said, deciding to pull himself up again. The sleaziness of the room, the way Box was looking at him with a dangerous set to his jaw, the general unpleasantness of the whole situation was too much to deal with. The shower, with its miniscule offerings of soap and shampoo, called to him. At least he might be warm then. “I’m going for a shower,” he called over his shoulder. “Think I’ll just take the desk.” 

In the privacy of the bathroom, he could whip off the rest of his sodden clothes. He made an attempt at wringing them out in the sink, the effect negligible. He strung them up across the towel rack and dove into the shower. The first freezing drops barely phased him, frozen as he was, but after a few minutes of creaking pipes, steam filled the room. His tense muscles loosened, and he regained some of the feeling in his feet once again. He poured a generous amount of shampoo into his hair, desperate to rid himself of the feeling of slowly drying rainwater in it. He spent a blissful ten minutes under the water, and left feeling a little more human than had been before. 

The only problem - he laughed at himself then, there was no  _ one  _ problem about all of this - he had now, was what to put on, because the thought of cold, wet underwear filled him with a deep kind of unhappiness he hadn’t felt in years. Then he caught sight of the back of the door, on which hung two thick, towel dressing gowns. 

Perhaps his luck was finally changing. He reached for them, only to find one was made for someone a good shout bigger than him, and the other much smaller. A woman, probably. Oh. That explained the one bed, he supposed. He thought briefly about taking the larger and simply rolling the sleeves up, but the image of Box squeezing himself into the womans gown, or worse  _ forgoing one completely  _ struck him and he scrambled for the smaller. Showing more calf than respectable was a small price to pay to not have to see his DI like that. 

He draped a towel across his shoulders and knocked on the door before heading back into the living space, holding the larger gown out as a white flag of sorts. 

“Some, ah, genuine good news?” he said. Box, who was sat at the desk staring darkly into his cup looked up, did a double take and sniggered. 

“I’m not gonna fit in that now am I?” 

Morse, much to his own dismay, felt himself redden. 

“This one’s bigger, you dolt. Just. Take it. Shower’s not so bad,” he said, and when Box didn’t move, he dropped the gown on his lap. He pulled his towel up and began working at his hair as he dropped down onto the end of the bed. 

Box still hadn’t moved, so he looked back over. 

“You don’t get the bed if you’re just going to soak it.” That kicked his arse into gear. He jumped up from the chair and hurried towards the bathroom, leaving Morse to pad about the room in peace. He managed to dry his hair mostly, enough that he wouldn’t ruin any pillows and then glanced around the room. 

Now, rank and respect would suggest he should let Box have the bed, but spite was a powerful force that insisted he did not deserve it after dragging Morse across Oxfordshire on a trail that ultimately left them no closer to solving the case than before, not to mention stuck in a crumbling hotel like  _ this _ . Then again, even if he took the bed, he had no doubt Box could and would push him from it if he wanted. Truly, any other time he might have fought him on it, just on principle, but exhaustion and cold weighed him down, the idea of revving up for an argument impossible. He grabbed the two plumpest looking pillows and dropped them on the desk. He’d slept in more uncomfortable places before; his desk at work didn’t even have pillows. This was the Hilton of desk-beds, really. 

He downed his tea whilst the shower rattled back to life, then went rifling through the drawers to see what other supplies they had. A battered looking bible, one spare blanket, which he took, and a pair of slippers, only somewhat worn. He’d have those. Just as he was readying his makeshift bed for the night, Box reappeared and it was Morse’s turn to double take. 

Somehow the gown still didn’t fit him. The sleeves barely came to his wrists, and the low neck showed more of his chest than his ridiculous polos ever did. At least Morse wasn’t alone in the exposed leg department. He wasn’t sure the sight of Box’s thighs would ever leave him now. 

“Don’t say a word,” Box spat, jabbing a finger at him. Morse raised an eyebrow, watching how Box’s ear turned pink this time. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it sir,” he drawled, dropping into his seat. Box stomped towards the bed and dropped into it, something deep within the mattress  _ pinging  _ as he did so. Morse bit back a laugh. There was a few minutes of silence, where Morse wondered how the evening might of played out, had it been anyone else stuck with him. Strange he could have stood to share the bed with, even Thursday would have been easy enough to top and tail with. Possibly Box was a better option than Bright, but even then, he might have been able to spark some sort of conversation with Bright. Talking to Box about anything other than work was like pulling teeth. For a fleeting moment, he even wished for Jakes to return. At least the bickering would have been fun then. 

No, instead he was stuck in some rain-beaten shack many miles from his own bed, stuck with a man he couldn’t stand, realising quite suddenly how much it was possible to miss someone like Strange. What he wouldn’t give for some of that persistent optimism right now. 

He was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of the phone being pulled from the hook, to Box punching in the number to what he assumed was Thames Valley. 

“They’re not going to come get us,” Morse said, fluffing his pillows. “If we can’t get past that flood, neither can they.” 

“Yeah, course,” Box bit back. “But at least they’ll know where we are, send someone over in the morning, with some clothes perhaps? Unless you feel like strolling back in like this?” He tugged at his gowns collar, accidentally treating Morse to an eyeful of his bare chest. He seemed unbothered by the fact, and Morse determined Box was the sort to proudly stroll around locker rooms fully exposed, overly cocky bastard that he was. He shivered. 

“Alright,” he said, not ready to argue it anymore. He listened with half an ear as Box yelled down at whichever unsuspecting constable was on night duty, tuning back in when he thrust the phone back down. 

“Pickup’s at eight, if they can get through,” Box said, a little quieter now than it had been on the phone. The days adventures had seemingly begun to wear him down too. The tough-man attitude was waning a bit, as he looked over at Morse with tired eyes. Fresh from the shower, damp hair still plastered to his forehead, overpowering cologne swapped for the muted scent of soap, and remarkably less dressed than usual, Box cut a less intimidating presence than usual. In a way, almost vulnerable. He was having more difficulty keeping up the scowl every time they caught eyes. Morse wouldn’t say it was friendly, but there seemed to be an unspoken agreement to forgo the sniping now. A peace treaty of sorts. 

“Well,” Morse settled into his chair, propping his chin up on a hand. “Better get some shut eye then.” He waited for Box to lean over and flick the light off, the second switch tucked above the headboard, but he didn’t move. The silence stretched on a few seconds past awkward, so Morse coughed.

“Sir, the light?” 

“You’re not sleeping there are you?” 

Morse looked down at his bed. It truly wasn’t the worst he’d done. His neck would rebel against him for it, but when wasn’t some part of his body upset with him? 

“I’m not taking the floor,” he said quite seriously. “So my options are pretty limited. Would you prefer I took to the porch?” 

Box glowered. 

“Don’t be thick Morse. There’s a bed, use it.” 

That took Morse back a step.

“You’re taking the floor?” 

“Christ, man, for a genius you’re thick. It’s a double. Get in.” Morse balked. 

“I’d rather not.” 

“What?” Box threw his hands up. “I ain’t gonna rob you of your virtue Morse, get in the flaming bed would you?” He stood, and Morse wondered where all of this was going. How his day had so quickly turned from report writing at his desk to  _ this  _ he had no idea. 

Box stalked across the room and clamped a hand on Morse’s shoulder. 

“Look, this place is shitty, and we’ve both been soaked through. The heater is barely making a difference, and that window won’t close. You  _ will  _ catch your death like that, and then Thursday’s on my case and look, that’s just a headache I don’t need to deal with, alright?” He shook Morse’s shoulder, and Morse found himself propelled to his feet. 

“It’s big enough we won’t even have to touch.” He leant in close, voice suddenly closer than Morse ever wanted it to be. “We’re grownups aren’t we? Sure we’ve gone through worse.” 

Morse weighed up the idea of this, against memories of being shot, stabbed and incarcerated. This still came out somewhere near the top. Yet Box made an annoyingly good point. It would be very like him to catch something, shiving in his sleep in nothing but a gown, and Thursday would never stop calling him thick headed for it. 

So maybe it was that, perhaps it was delirium from pneumonia already setting in, or the fact that the bed just looked so much nicer than the desk, but Morse found himself, against every sensible bone in him - which in fairness there weren’t that many of - going to bed with Ronnie Box. Another silent agreement seemed to pass them, that they would both keep their gowns on, as uncomfortable as it may be, it seemed preferable to the only alternative, especially considering neither of them had any sort of underwear. 

Box brought over his pillows, pushing them to the furthest edge of the bed. It left a little more than a few inches between them, once they both settled in beneath the covers. Morse lay flat out on his back, hands curled around his chest. He was a starfish kind of sleeper usually, free to sprawl about his own bed with reckless abandon, but something told him that sort of behaviour would have him turfed from the bed in no time. So he lay, staring at the ceiling whilst Box shuffled about beside him. He listened to the sounds of the other man's nightly rituals; rolling his neck, cracking his knuckles and turning off the light, then peeling back the covers to slip under them. He curled onto his side almost immediately, facing away from Morse for which he was very thankful. It meant Morse could let out the breath he had been holding, let his arms fall slightly. He kept his hands above the covers and stretched out, letting his cheek fall against the pillows and his eyes close. Finally, he let the tiredness catch up with him. 

Every part of him was annoyingly aware of the fact there was a body next to him. That usually only meant one thing, and his sleepy mind was wandering into dangerous territory with that train of thought. As the sound of his neighbours breathing evened out, slowly turning into quiet snores, Morse found himself being lulled by it. His mind started to drift, and slowly but surely sleep caught up with him. 

At first, dreamless, his head soon filled with images of rain, thoughts of wandering lost in it for what felt like an eternity. Flashes of faces passing him in the dark, of voices on the wind. Of hands on his arms, pulling him back from falling into an abyss. Scattered pieces of memories played out on a long and winding dream, one he found himself waking from some hours later, coming to in a sudden instant, the sensation of falling jerking him back to reality. He awoke, slouched to one side, face buried in the pillow and arms tucked beneath his chest. 

For one confusing second, he had no recollection of where he was, thrown by the unfamiliar sheets and feeling of another body pressed against his. Some other distant part of his brain told him he was safe, and he calmed, before the more rational part kicked in and reminded him who his bedmate was. Any lingering hope he had of simply falling back to sleep was lost as he realised whose back was warming his through his gown. 

He let out a hissed curse, before teaching back with a hand, testing. Sleep-numb fingers brushed against the knotted belt of Box’s gown, and in a conflicting moment Morse was both thankful they were both still covered up and horrified at how close his hand had come to brushing parts of Box he hoped never to brush. At least they were back to back, he told himself. And, he reasoned, it made sense that in a room this cold, their sleeping bodies sought out warmth. Wriggling his feet, he concluded the room had, in the early hours of the morning, cooled significantly. He’d be writing a strongly worded letter of complaint about a place that shut off their heating once visitors fell asleep later. No, a terrible, awful part of him was thankful for the life sized bed warmer, even if it was Box. At least he was asleep. There was no need for him ever to know about this. 

So Morse let out the breath he’d been holding in, and felt his eyelids droop once again. A shiver ran through him, and something of a tickle settled in his chest. No doubt the start of a cold brought on by all of this. He rolled his shoulders, and sighed, letting sleep once again wash over him. This time the dreams were lighter, less rain, more rivers. Visions of punting, of a setting sun over the colleges, of lean muscles guiding them down the river. Fingers floating on the surface of the water. Waking again, as the sun slipped between the moth eaten curtains, was smoother this time, a more languid occasion. His body is a lot slower to react now, it took him longer to crack open his eyes, and to acknowledge the feeling of something wrapped around his middle. 

Once again, he found himself pulled wide awake. There was an arm, a thick, toned arm slung about his waist. This time, it was a chest pressed to his back, Box all but laying on top of him. If Morse had thought he had a tendency to fill up a bed, Box had the problem twice as bad. 

He went to turn, to twist himself out from under his sleeping DI, and at that point realised just how close he was. Box’s chin was buried in his shoulder, nose pressed against the back of his neck. His breaths were warm on his throat, still vaguely smelling like his last cigarette, and Morse tried not to think about why that particular scent was comforting. He knew he should be feeling some sort of way about this, probably not at all good. The best course of action was probably extracting himself from this, before it could spiral any further out of control. 

Ever so slowly, he reached beneath the covers, hand blindly following the curve of Box’s arm. He circled a hand about his wrist and carefully lifted the deadweight from his waist. Box was running incredibly warm, or perhaps Morse was clammy, but either way the touch burned in a way he hadn’t expected. Freeing himself, he kicked at the covers till his feet could find an escape, and slipped from the covers. He laid Box’s arm back down and watched as he shifted in his sleep - an unsurprisingly heavy sleeper - and rolled into the pillows. 

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Morse padded to the desk, picking up the first watch his hands found; not his, judging by the weight of it. It was just passing seven; if they were expecting pickup soon, a phone call wouldn’t be too far off. He supposed he should do the kindly thing and wake Box before the call startled him awake. Then he shook himself and wondered why he was considering the  _ kindly  _ thing for someone like Box. Instead he took himself off to the bathroom, to see how well his clothes had fared. 

His shirt had gone a little stiff, and his trousers cuffs were splattered with mud, but they were no longer soaked through. He picked them off the railings, collecting up Box’s things too, and laid them out on the slowly warming heater. He couldn’t help, as he shuffled about the room, glancing back over at Box. It was such an unusual sight, to see him devoid of his usual bravado, as stripped back as it was possible to be. Not to mention quite so undressed, gown having all but fell from his shoulders, unable to contain the width of his chest and such constant moving and twisting. Morse was now privy to the knowledge Box had a tattoo across his left shoulder, roman numerals commemorating the eight of May, 1947. He puzzled for a while what it might mean before settling with the fact he’d never care to ask, nor get a truthful reply either. It was just another oddity, another side of Box he’d likely never see again. 

Sometimes it could feel so much like they were set against each other, that they had their roles and were set in their ways, that it was easy to forget Box was as human as he was. There were precious few in the world who were all bad, and Morse had seen more than his fair share of them, working where he did. So had Box. Box was just as revolted by senseless murders, just as horrified when young victims turned up. Perhaps his methods and thinking was different, and Morse by no means liked or agreed with them. He would never  _ like  _ Box. He could hardly hate him though, with the same fire he had some months ago. Watching a man take a bullet intended for you took the edge off that somewhat. 

Today though, last night, all of this was the reminder he needed that they were both only human. Not friends, not even friendly, but a little more more alike than he realised. The thought made him shudder. He didn’t particularly wish to dwell on that thought much longer, nor on the sight of Box still sprawled across the bed, so he turned around and went about filling the kettle. Going over and shaking him awake seemed far too close and personal. 

Box woke a few minutes later to the shrill sound of the kettle, and a cup of tea thrust under his nose that he hadn’t asked for, and Morse hadn’t offered. He took it with a nod, then loped towards the window for a fag. Morse tucked himself into the desk chair, idly running a hand through his hair in an attempt to flatten it. There wasn’t an awful lot to do, but Box found a radio tucked under the unit, and found a news station that filled the quiet. They moved around each other, slowly and carefully, neither wanting to cross the others path all that much. Box it seems was just as much of a morning person as he was, which is to say not at all. Morse folded up his damp clothes, swilled mouthwash as best he could. They managed to pass the empty hour without saying a word to each other, till the sound of tyres on gravel drew their eyes to the door. 

Thursday, a sly smirk on his face, turned up at the door with two plastic bags swinging from his fingertips. 

“Mornin’ lads,” he said, handing them over. 

“Morning Fred,” Box said, the first words of the day all low and raspy. Morse nodded.

“Morning, sir. Thanks.” 

They took the clean clothes, Box heading for the bathroom. Thursday waited outside, smoking by the car till they were done. Morse headed out after pushing his dirty clothes into the bag, ducking his head at Thursday as he threw them in the back of the car. 

“Enjoy your sleepover?” Thursday asked, barely hiding the laughter in his voice. He has more of a soft spot for Box than any of them, probably thinks this is the funniest thing in the world. 

“Well I don’t plan on asking him to stay over anytime soon,” Morse replied. 

Then Box came strolling out, his swagger back now he’s had time to put on his face. Yet Morse still couldn’t look at him quite the same, not as he clambered into the car, cracked a joke with Thursday and turned the radio up full blast. Something about waking up in the arms of a man who supposedly hated you must change a thing or two. Something had shifted in the air between them, and Morse couldn’t say he was all that upset about it. 

**Author's Note:**

> was this whole fic me projecting my love for box and his rippling muscles? maybe bitch!!!


End file.
